A Metaphor

(Picture Credit - Writing by MacMyth)

 

A metaphor, the ultimate actor.

Let’s mix it into a Whisky blend.

To rhyme or not to rhyme,

That is the question.

Let’s go for no.

That metaphor –

A fusion of words and meanings.

Compound image.

Subtle synthesis of correlations coalesced.

Marriage of minds.

Beyond comparison.

The poet, weaver of words,

Composing symphonies

Of spoken sounds.

Mixing metaphors:

Chemical brews

Of nectar,

For all to savour

In the theatre

Of the written page.

Paul Butters

I Am

(Picture Credit - More than a Sunday Faith com)

Some say that when I die

My soul will fly

Into some newborn life

Human or otherwise.

So that could mean that I myself

Am full of older souls

Who once were kings or queens

Knights, paupers, heroes or villains:

Anyone that will have lived

And died already.

But since our living numbers ever expand

It could even be

That I am a new soul

Totally free of the past.

And all this that I write right here,

Could equally apply to YOU

My friend.

I find some comfort in

These radical thoughts,

Though others prefer

Nirvana.

(Freedom from the cycle of life and death).

Paul Butters

Troll

(Internet Troll by Bit Social Media)

A Note to myself and You:

NEVER ANSWER A TROLL.

“Don’t feed the Trolls” they say,

So don’t reply to them.

(Delete or block them if you can).

Let their bile or guile stand alone,

So that others can see

What bad people they are.

Ignore them completely.

Leave them to drown in the Silence.

Paul Butters

© PB 31\1\2016 (2).

Sky

The sky: an ever-changing canopy,

Endless variety.

Black at night,

Punctuated only by stars and moonlight,

And clouds by day.

Cloud-ships sail along an invisible sea,

Scowling black clouds,

Or fluffy white palaces of snow.

No end of shapes and forms,

Yet sometimes formless mists.

Clouds that are net curtains

In the window to space,

Or growling black monsters

Firing deadly lightning-forks.

If we’re lucky,

There aren’t any clouds at all,

Just blue from horizon to horizon

Everywhere you see.

Golden-red dawns and sunsets

Contrast well with deepest blues

All colours and hues.

By night and day, Moon and Sun

Play Peekaboo behind those clouds.

And stars forever twinkle and swirl

Along the Milky Way.

No words can adequately capture

The beauties of the sky,

It just gives God’s Believers

Every Reason Why.

Paul Butters

Ode to Summer

(Picture Credit - Saga Holidays)

Season of sun and sand and sea,

Holiday time for you and me.

Daylight right ‘til ten o’clock,

Don’t forget to wear sun-block.

Sitting idly reading Keats,

Watching kids with buckets and spades;

Sparrows with their frantic tweets,

Flying high above the glades.

Oh it’s great to be so free,

No more snow or ice for me.

Even mugginess is okay,

So long as it’s warm throughout the day.

Swimming in that so cool pool,

Sure beats sweating back in school.

Summer is my favourite month,

Whoops my rhyme-scheme just went Whoomph!

Nothing rhymes with month you know,

But let’s forget about that snow.

Let’s laze instead on lawn or beach,

And keep a beer within our reach.

Paul Butters

Me, Paul Butters

(Me, by Me via my laptop camera)

I’m no author, novelist or poet.

I’m just Me,

And don’t I know it.

I don’t need to be classified,

As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,

I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.

I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:

I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,

I’m not worried about any pay.

Words come to me without much bidding,

The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,

Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.

Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,

To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,

And sing what I sing,

Just letting those words

Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\11\2015 (3).

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